


The Empty Seat

by lymerikk



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 12:05:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2387708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lymerikk/pseuds/lymerikk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yao always used to sit alone on the train ride to work. Everything was routine, everything was same-old same-old. One day, an odd and curious stranger appeared in the carriage, asking for the seat beside Yao. So began a one-sided romance that Yao created in his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Empty Seat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laveniis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laveniis/gifts).



There had always been an empty seat beside Yao. He would sit alone each day on the train, making the same old commute to work each day. He would buy a coffee and a chocolate at the little store aside his local train station, and then he would step onto the train, and ride to work. Work itself was nothing special, just some stupid office job he did to pay the bills. He was still forced into a suit everyday even though he only had to fill out a form now and then. He knew most of the people on the train by face, not by name. He always sat on the same seat, in the same carriage. He knew everyone who entered, yet he knew nothing about them. As it was in the city.

Today was different. An odd man, with the height of a giant and an odd look in his violet eye, toddled onto the carriage and stood in front of Yao. Yao narrowed his eyes a bit, scrutinizing this stranger's outfit first. It would have been incredibly bright, almost burning his retinas, had the stranger not been cloaking his neon green undershirt with a thick black jacket with a few buttons missing. His jeans were tight to his clearly muscled legs, and they were a bright pink. Below that, leathery boots clawed up his legs and stopped their domination at his thigh. All of this was topped by a thick white scarf, which stooped about his neck and flew its tails just under his knee. "Can I sit here?" he asked, pointing to the vacant spot beside Yao. From his accent, Yao could tell he was Russian, maybe a new resident in the town they were stopped at. Observation is key.

"Uh, sure," Yao replied, shuffling over and putting his bag on the floor. He supposed that the train was pretty packed today. It was fair for this man to wish to sit beside him. The man sat down, seemingly shaky. The train began to move again, and Yao found himself passing glances to him all through the ride. He seemed quite jittery, fiddling with his hands and touching his calloused fingers together quite rhythmically. Occasionally, he would cough and lean down, hands tangled in his curly blond hair. Yao wanted to ask, but found that talking with strangers not only unsettled them, but it caused unrest in himself as well. For now, he would observe, and see if he could work out what this guy's deal was. Yao sighed as he reached his stop, irritated that he had no further clue as to the man's problem, and he stood up. Surprisingly, so did the stranger. Yao muttered a curse to himself and strode out of the carriage, stepping onto the train platform and going off to work. He did turn, and he did see the man watching him walk off. How odd.

At the end of his work day, Yao was quite exhausted. His boss had given him a considerable amount of work to get through today, and he had needed to push himself incredibly to get it all done within her timeframe. He bought a coffee and a sandwich, and hopped onto the train when it arrived. Just as the train was closing its doors, the peculiar man from earlier leapt aboard, ignoring a woman who was obviously crying his name and reaching out to try and stop him. So he was called Ivan. He went over to Yao, panting and sitting down without needing to ask this time. He was covered in odd coloured splatters, red in some places, yellow and blue in others. Yao's first idea of the red ones was blood, but he deemed it preposterous to even think such a thing. It was clearly paint, he decided. Ivan was even shakier than he was this morning, and Yao pouted. He wanted to ask, but didn't. Yao reached his stop and stood, finding Ivan standing up as well, and getting out from the same door as he. He began to walk off, although he found himself glancing back again. Ivan seemed to be standing by the yellow line on the platform, just staring after him. How odd. Yao decided to forget this and move on.

The next day, Ivan got on at a different stop. He sat down beside Yao, quiet as ever, the two of them accepting that this was how things would be from now on. In the afternoon, Ivan came back covered in paint, and would later get off at an entirely different stop. He didn't have a woman crying for him that time. And so it carried on for days, and then months. It was always the same routine. Every now and then, Yao would observe something new about Ivan, and try and work out the story behind it. He was sure that Ivan was quite a curious individual. He always seemed to have a stain on his shirt, be it paint or coffee, and he would occasionally listen to death metal and orchestra on his phone. Yao could always hear the tinny buzz of the heavier parts of music even though Ivan had his headphones on.

Yao grew a habit of asking himself a dangerous what if. He imagined himself a life with Ivan, as he did with many other strangers. It was something to occupy his time. He decided Ivan would be a kind man, a kind lover, too. He would be the type to top, but he would be flustered easily and run out of breath in an instant. He would be a shy kisser, always cautious of taking it too far or making Yao uncomfortable. Yao imagined how their lives would be right now should he have talked to Ivan. It was much too awkward to now, however, so he could not. He took to imagining Ivan would want to go to places like obscure stores and cafes and museums and art galleries, all while dragging Yao along and smiling. That's the person Yao always imagined Ivan to be.

At some point, Yao found himself growing fond of this man. This odd man who scampered off out of the train, this odd man who had clashing music tastes, this odd man who ate a sandwich crust-first. All those little quirks called out for affection and attention, and Yao wished to supply both of those things. He decided to himself that when July came around, the start of the new month, he would try talking to Ivan. He would say he thought he was cute, talk to him, and learn more about what he couldn't just through his observation.

Ivan didn't catch the train on June twentieth. Yao thought this quite curious. Ivan had caught the train every day for months now, only to so suddenly stop. Yao assumed he was ill. He had seemed a little downed lately. Perhaps he'd gotten the sniffles. Yao wondered where Ivan lived, sometimes. By the paint on Ivan's clothes, Yao could only assume he was an artist, a man who worked in bright colours and created great works that he would surely display about his room. Perhaps he lived in a crammed apartment, with paint containers lining the windowsills as there was simply no room anywhere else; it was all occupied by damp or blank canvas. On the other hand, what if he lived in a grand mansion? Perhaps he was to deck the walls out with his illustrations of bright, passionate scenery. Yao reminded himself to ask Ivan about his art when July came around.

Ivan didn't catch the train the next day, or the one after. Yao was in his apartment one evening, lazily watching the news while eating his dinner; it was a soup-based meal he'd prepared himself. He wondered what Ivan's cooking was like. Did he sometimes almost drink from his paint water cup? He laughed softly at the thought. Something caught his eye on the screen, and he focused his eyes on the newsreader. 'A missing persons report has been filed for an Ivan Braginsky, who went missing yesterday around the South train station." Yao's blood ran cold. The television now showed an image, a photograph of Ivan smiling and holding an artwork. "If seen, please call the police immediately. This man's life may be in danger." Yao put down his soup, no longer very hungry. He told himself that Ivan was just another stranger on the train; he wasn't anyone important. Just some weird stranger that Yao had written a life for.

Ivan didn't show up for another couple of days. Yao grew anxious whenever he boarded the train, sitting down and eagerly staring about, seeing if Ivan would make an appearance. He never did. Yao sat one late afternoon in his and Ivan's seat, fiddling with his fingers and listening to the sound of the train clicking against the tracks. He wished to be hearing the screams of death metal and the light notes of piano and flute. Something caught his ear, and he raised his head slightly.

"-Yeah, that one kid who sat beside the Asian," a woman said, talking to a friend or colleague who stood beside her. Yao had always been a good eavesdropper, used to listening in on his mother and father's conversations. "I can't believe it."

"Kids these days, huh?" the colleague murmured, taking a big breath and sighing. "I can't understand why they'd want to end their lives so young."

"Fear and loathing," she retorted. "That kid looked so nervous everyday," she scoffed, sticking her nose up. "He was like a ticking time-bomb. As much as I can't believe he's gone and done it, it was going to happen at some point."

Yao had heard enough. He got up, marching over to the couple and narrowing his eyes. "Are you talking about Ivan?" he mumbled, grinding his teeth while he waited for an answer.

"Yes," the woman mused. "What's it to you?"

"He was-.." Yao had to pause and think about it. Ivan was not his boyfriend or lover, not even a friend. He was just.. a stranger. "Just tell me where he is."

"Heaven, kid," the man frowned. "That poor boy committed suicide a few days ago."

The rest of the train ride was a blur to Yao. He was pretty sure that he returned to his seat and sat down, but other than that, it was a mystery. He didn't recall getting home, but he certainly felt the floor when he tripped and slammed his head to it. Yao cried. He wasn't quite sure why. He had nothing to do with this Ivan, other than sharing a train seat for three months or so. Why was he weeping? He told himself it was just because loss of life was upsetting to anyone.

Could he have made a difference? Yao was always asking himself that, even as the days dragged on. The fact that onlookers had seen it coming had put him off greatly. Was he that dense? He wondered if, he had talked to Ivan, had become his friend, Ivan might still be sitting beside him instead of having his name sit among the obituaries list. Yao sighed and tried to focus his mind on something else, yet his thoughts always returned to the odd Russian man who used to sit beside him. This was how he spent the next month or so.

There hadn't always been an empty seat beside Yao.


End file.
